The Well Page 6

All I can do is tell them the whole thing. Then they can decide what to do with me. “I’ve been in fights before. Too many of them. I get so angry . . . there is so much injustice in the city. The strong abuse the weak. Greeks and Romans oppress the Jews and Samaritans alike.”

  Father thinks I look for fights, but he’s wrong. Trouble finds me. Sometimes it was Greek traders insulting Benjamin or youths picking on beggars in the marketplace. Sometimes his own brothers teased him once too often. He touched the puckering scar on his temple again.

  “There were two soldiers. They were harassing a woman.” He clenched his hands into fists. “They—the soldiers—were drunk. They pushed her around. I couldn’t just walk by.” He raised his eyes. “They were looking for a fight. But it got out of control so fast.”

  “What did you do, Shem?” Abahu asked.

  “I . . . pulled out my dagger, told Benjamin to run . . .” Abahu’s face was hard to read. Would he call him a fool, like his father had? “One of them grabbed me, and he had a sword.” Shem touched the scar again. “But I got in close. I . . .” He swallowed hard. The look on Abahu’s face told Shem that he didn’t have to explain.

  “We got away. We hid in a warehouse, one of ours. But they have been looking for me ever since. It’s all over the city.” Shem sat in miserable silence.

  Abahu and Mechola exchanged a long look. “So your father sent you here to hide you.” His grandfather looked older than he had a moment earlier.

  “Yes,” Shem said. “But . . . there is more, Grandfather.”

  Abahu pursed his lips. “More than killing a Roman soldier?”

  “My father had Drusus tell you that I’ll settle here, take over the olives and the press since you have no sons of your own.”

  “Yes, that’s what your father wants.” Abahu nodded.

  Shem shook his head. “That is not what he wants. I must tell you that he has other plans for me. Big plans. He’s waiting for this to blow over. Maybe a year, he told me. Then he will want me back in Caesarea, I’m sure of it.”

  “What do you mean? And why didn’t he tell us?”

  Shem shrugged. Saying anything more would show his father as the liar that he was.

  Abahu frowned. “What of your mother?”

  “She doesn’t know. Really, she expects me to stay here and live with you. She thinks it will keep me out of trouble.” Shem rubbed the back of his neck. And already I’ve threatened some of the village boys. He picked up his cup and took a long drink of wine. Strong and sweet, it loosened his tight throat. “But my father . . . well, I am very valuable to him. And yes, I have learned the laws of the Samaritans.”

  His grandfather grunted.

  “But I’ve also studied with the Jews. Before I left, I was studying with a Greek tutor. I speak both Greek and Latin, as well as Aramaic and Hebrew.” Shem fidgeted with the ring on his finger. “I’ve been promised a place in the city government.”

  “You are young to know so much, and why you would need to know the laws of the Jews . . .”

  “It is helpful in Caesarea.” Shem shrugged again. It wouldn’t help anyone to tell Abahu that Ezra had dealings with many Jews—Jews that didn’t even suspect that his father was Samaritan. “Learning comes easily to me.”

  “You’re saying that you won’t be staying here?” Abahu said.

  Shem looked at Mechola. Her eyes were downcast, and her mouth drooped.

  “I don’t know. I must obey my father, but I will not lie to you. If they find me here—the Romans—you both will be in danger.” Shem swallowed hard. “I will understand if you want me to leave.”

  Abahu sat still and silent.

  Shem picked up the round of bread. He put it down without taking a bite. He took a deep gulp of his wine.

  Abahu sighed, then said gruffly, “You have grown to be a good man. Eat and rest. We will trust in the Almighty. Tomorrow we will get you some sturdy clothes and teach you how to be a farmer.”

  • • •

  Mara smiled at her mother. When they had returned from the synagogue, Nava had been awake and dressed. She had already laid out the bread and yogurt in the shade of the trees. Mara knew then that her mother would spend the Sabbath with them, singing songs and telling stories.

  They ate together, tearing off chunks of yesterday’s hard bread and soaking them in the thick, tangy yogurt. Nava ate little, but smiled and listened to Asher chatter as he stuffed his mouth with almonds. Mara hadn’t mentioned the source of the almonds, and Nava didn’t ask.

  Now they sat in the house as dusk fell. Mara pulled a gap-toothed ivory comb through her mother’s tangled hair. Asher snuggled deep in Nava’s lap, talking around the thumb that refused to leave his mouth. “Mama, tell us a story, please? Tell us about Mara’s abba?”

  “You’ve heard that story so many times, my sweet.” Nava tipped her head back so that her long hair fell in Mara’s lap and closed her eyes. “Mara’s father was very handsome. He was tall and strong, and he made the most beautiful clay jars and pots. He could paint a beautiful garden—greens and golds and pinks—on a water jug. Sometimes he would paint little flowers on shards of clay for me. He would slip them to me in the marketplace. My friends were so jealous of his devotion.”

  Asher snuggled deeper in his mother’s lap. Mara’s hand faltered on the comb. Had that been the beginning of trouble for her mother?

  “When I came of age, he asked my father for my hand. But my abba said no. You see, Moshe was not a rich man, just a potter’s son. My father wanted a better marriage for me. But Moshe, he waited patiently. And finally, Abba said yes.” She smiled, and her face became young again. “We were so happy.”

  Mara stopped brushing. That’s where the story always ends. She never speaks of Moshe’s death, nor of the years after it. Is there more that she isn’t telling?

  Nava ran her hands over her hair to test its smoothness. She shifted Asher to Mara’s lap and took the comb. “Now, let me work on your hair, Mara.”

  “You now, Mara!” Asher said. “You tell a story now.”

  Mara smiled at her little brother. He had so few days like this. Thank God the Sabbath required them to rest with no distracting chores. “What would you like me to tell, my sweet?”

  “Tell me about my father, Mara, please?”

  “No, Asher. You hear this story every day.” But never in front of her mother.

  “Please, Mara?” Asher squirmed.

  Mara remembered Shaul, Asher’s father, well. It was the happiest time she had ever known and the most painful of all her memories. And Nava never spoke of him.

  Asher took his thumb out of his mouth. “I won’t suck my thumb tonight. I promise.”

  He deserves to hear about his abba. “Alright. Your abba,” she began. “Well . . . he was big and strong and very handsome.” She looked over her shoulder at Nava.

  Her mother’s smile was gone.

  “And what else, Mara?” Asher asked.

  She couldn’t stop now. “He loved Mama very much. When they married, I was about as old as you are now. He always laughed and made Mama and me laugh, too.”

  The tug of the comb in her hair stopped.

  “Did he make things out of wood?” Asher hurried her on to his favorite part of the story.

  “Yes, beautiful things. Yokes and plow handles and even the stool that we sit on to milk the goats.”

  Nava put the comb into Mara’s hands. Why had Nava pushed Shaul away? I know she loved him.

  “What else?” Asher said, his cheek dimpling.

  “Well, don’t you have a little donkey and a little cow that you play with every day?”

  Asher nodded his head, too pleased to speak, and pointed to the well-worn toys lying in the corner. Toys that he would have given up years ago if he had a father, instead of a mother who treated him like a baby.

  “Those were carved by his hands! I watched when he gave them to you, although you were too little to even hold them. He loved you very much to make those for you.” />
  Nava rose and went to her corner of the room. She spread her mat on the floor.

  Asher let out a satisfied sigh. At least he had liked the story. He lowered himself from Mara’s lap and crawled to his sleeping mat to lie down beside the beloved cow and donkey. “How did my abba die, Mama?” he asked.

  Nava’s shoulders slumped under an invisible weight. She dragged her hands over her eyes and forehead. “I think I am tired now. Go to sleep, Asher.” She lay down on her mat and turned her back to them.

  Mara went to Asher, who was already drowsing. At least he is unaware of the hurt that his words cause. She tucked his little blanket around him and traced his peaceful face with one finger. She looked at her mother, curled in a tight ball of misery. Any mention of Shaul sent her back into a private world of darkness. Lord of all, please help them. Help them both, I beg you.

  Chapter 7

  Mara’s sack bounced against her leg as she hiked toward the village. The rough-spun bundle held her spindle, a great tuft of carded wool, and three skeins of green yarn for her aunt Ruth. Ruth would send it home filled with barley, oil, and beans. Asher’s thin legs slipped from around her waist, and she hitched him higher on her back. He’s so much smaller than other boys his age, but by winter, he’ll be too big for me to carry. What would she do then?

  But an even bigger worry weighed on her. Should I tell Ruth about Alexandros? It would be a relief to talk about it. Maybe her aunt could get Nava to see sense and send the pagan away for good.

  When they arrived at her uncle’s courtyard, Mara was panting and covered in sweat. She dropped Asher to the ground and sank onto the bench under a sharp-scented eucalyptus tree. The courtyard was small but full of color. Crocuses bloomed around trees that provided both shade and beauty. Her aunt’s loom sat in one corner, a basket of yarn beside it. The smell of baking barley loaves warmed the air, and children’s laughter drifted from behind the house.

  “Can I go?” Asher asked, looking toward the back garden.

  “Yes. Help with the weeding. Be good.”

  Ruth hurried out of the small house and folded Mara in her soft, plump arms. Mara breathed in her aunt’s sweet scent of lavender and barley. It felt good to be held and petted like a child again.

  Although younger than Nava, Ruth was no great beauty. Her body was small and rounded, her brown face creased with laughter, her small, dark eyes full of kindness. Most days found Ruth working in her modest home, surrounded by her children and their friends. Three strong sons and a daughter made Ruth the envy of many women in the village.

  Uziel, not rich but well-respected, sold tools from a cramped shop in the middle of the marketplace. He made barely enough profit to support his growing family, but Ruth did her best with what little she had. Their home—only two rooms and a tiny courtyard—always felt cozy instead of crowded.

  Mara presented Ruth with the yarn.

  “Mara, this is a beautiful color. It will be lovely in the cloth I’m weaving for Matea. But you must let me pay you, my dear.” Ruth ran her fingers over the smooth thread.

  Mara shook her head. “You give us more than you can spare. Please, I want you to have it.”

  Ruth sat down at her loom. Clay weights stretched the warp threads tightly downward while Ruth wove the colorful weft threads across the length of fabric. Her daughter, Matea, toddled from the house and settled at her feet. Mara sat under the eucalyptus tree and took her spindle and a great tuft of goat’s wool from her bag. The soft breeze and the comforting scents of the courtyard soothed her worried mind. Now would be a good time to talk to Ruth about Alexandros.

  Mara jumped as the courtyard door banged open. A shrill voice followed. “Well, well, isn’t this nice?”

  Adah flounced into the courtyard, her hands empty. She wore a new linen dress, and her wrists jangled with shiny brass bangles. A necklace of amber hung from her skinny neck. Mara suppressed a groan. Adah was here to show off her finery and gossip.

  “Mara! How beautiful you are,” she said. “You are the image of your mother at your age, isn’t she, Ruth?”

  Adah ignored her at the well and marketplace, but here, in front of Ruth, she acted like a close family friend. Of course, Ruth knew the truth.

  Adah smoothed her dress and sat down next to Ruth. “Except Nava was already married at your age. In fact, I believe she was twice married, if you count that mess with Zevulun.”

  Mara faltered and almost dropped the whirling spindle. What did Adah mean? Twice married?

  Ruth caught her breath and looked from Mara back to Adah.

  Adah covered her mouth with her hand, as real remorse etched a furrow over her eyes. “Oh!” She looked to Ruth. “She doesn’t know?”

  Mara straightened her back. What was Adah talking about? “Of course I know.” She met the other woman’s eyes with a blank face. Whatever it was, she didn’t want to hear it from Adah.

  “Adah,” Ruth patted Adah’s leg. “I heard Jonothon’s wife had the baby yesterday?”

  “Oh, yes!” Adah turned away from Mara, relief in her voice. “And you wouldn’t believe what happened!” She launched into a story about the priest and his wife that she had heard from a very close friend.

  Mara gave her spindle a twist and another pinch of carded wool. What had Adah meant about Nava? Ruth would know. There could only be one reason why she never told me. It must be very bad.

  “. . . I would have loved to see Abahu’s face when that boy came to his door in his Greek clothes and shorn hair!”

  Mara’s mouth went dry. Adah was talking about Abahu’s grandson. She gave the spindle another twirl. She felt unclean listening to Adah’s gossip, but her ears strained to hear about the stranger. Had he said anything about her?

  “You know Mechola; she doesn’t say much. But I believe she is just as shocked as her husband. Can you believe it? Dinah’s own boy, looking like the Greeks of Caesarea! Dinah,” Adah snorted. “She was always so smug—and he’s old enough to be set in his father’s trade! I’d say he’s well over twenty. Far too old to be an apprentice, that’s what my husband says. And far too learned, from what his bragging servant says, to be picking olives!”

  Mara snuck a glance at Ruth. She seemed completely absorbed in her weaving. Yet I know she listens. A new member of the village affects everyone.

  “And they haven’t come to Passover for years! They say he is to learn the olive trade . . . humph! Something isn’t right about that, I say. That servant hinted that he might have been rushed out of Caesarea for other reasons . . .”

  Mara’s heart sank. So he was staying in Sychar. She would no doubt meet him again, and he would remember her humiliation on the road. He might start asking questions about her.

  Ruth halted her weaving.

  Adah fell silent, and the courtyard seemed to echo with the sudden quiet. She waited for Ruth to speak, her eyes bulging like a hooked fish.

  Ruth pointed. “Adah, would you please pass me that skein of green thread?”

  Adah handed it to her with a sniff. “Well. You might not care. Your daughter is too young. But he is a catch, rich and handsome. Every girl in town is talking about him. I’d guess they sent him away to put a stop to a bad match. His kind always falls for the wrong girl.”

  Ruth tied the new thread to her shuttle in silence. Adah sniffed again and stood, brushing her robe free of dust and adjusting her mantle over her thin, frizzy hair. “I must go, dear Ruth. I can’t believe I’ve stayed this long already! I have so much to do today, and Shimon will be furious if he comes home to no bread. That lazy Rivkah can’t be trusted to do anything right. I don’t know what Jebus sees in her.”

  She turned to Mara. “Good-bye, Mara, please pass on my greeting to your mother. And, my dear,” her gaze dropped to the ground, “I’m sorry that I ever mentioned . . . well, about Zevulun. Please, forgive me.” She hurried out of the courtyard without a backward glance.

  The courtyard gate slammed shut. Mara stopped her spindle. She opened her clenched
hand to find the soft wool crushed and damp.

  Ruth put down the skein of yarn and held out her arms. “I am sorry, my dear. She didn’t know. Adah’s a gossip, but not that cruel. At least not when she’s alone.”

  Mara fell into Ruth’s embrace. “What about Zevulun, Ruth? What does he want forgotten?”

  Ruth squeezed her tight. “Mara,” she finally said, “I will tell you about your mother. But you must try not to judge her. She was very young and foolish. It is best forgotten. But in Sychar . . . nothing is forgotten.” Her aunt settled back at the loom.

  Mara sat at her feet. Her heart fluttered, and she wrapped her arms around her chest like a shield.

  “Nava was a very beautiful girl.” Ruth’s eyes rested on Mara’s face. “Many said too beautiful. You are so much like her. Travelers talked of her beauty to other towns. Strangers would stare, and men of every age were foolish in her presence. But Nava . . . she didn’t practice the modesty that women like that must. She knew her own power and used it shamelessly on any man she met, whether old or young.”

  Ruth wound the green thread around her shuttle. “Our parents could deny her very little—perhaps they spoiled her. Our father doted on her, and mother was so proud of her beautiful daughter.” Ruth said this with no bitterness and looked down at Mara with a little smile. “But don’t think of her as just beautiful and selfish. She was also so joyful, so full of laughter. You could not be anything but cheerful with my big sister. I adored her.”

  “I remember what she was like . . . before,” Mara said.

  Ruth passed the shuttle through the warp, her hands flying faster as she talked. “Nava had given her heart to a handsome and reckless boy, Moshe. His eyes were as blue as the sky, his mouth full of sweet words. They sighed over each other in the marketplace; I could hardly watch them without laughing out loud. All the older girls were even more jealous of Nava. It was so improper, how they acted. But most just looked the other way, because it was Nava.”

  Matea crawled into Mara’s lap and snuggled close, her eyes half closed.

  Ruth used the shuttle to beat the green threads tight against the woven cloth above. “When Nava reached marrying age, a man of the village, a very rich one, spoke to our father. They began to make arrangements for his betrothal to Nava. Nava protested. It was disgraceful, really. If my daughter . . .” She glanced at Matea. “Well, anyway. It was Zevulun, of course. He was a widower with no children then. He already had great influence in the village, but, you know, he was not handsome or full of flattering words.”